She had a bionic arm attached
for good luck, in the name of rabbit’s
feet and pennies, dirty and run over.
We grow like light bulbs, pregnant.
Lights out in time, flip and shatter.
So what do you mean she
got a bionic arm? Who got
a bionic arm? Shush and I’ll tell
you. I am not being secretive, I am
being largely poetic, big bulb.
And the arm? She needs to feel
new, electrified and dehumanized.
She’s had her love drive surgically
displaced. The technology arrives
in cereal boxes, prizes like microchips
when inserted provide for a light de-ja-vu
free of medication and other dark glasses.
And she has received this technoboost
care of Yes Maaam, I Have Arrived Magazine.
She feels better without. That’s right, better.